Holmes and Watson
by PippinStrange
Summary: A series of one-shots between, during, and case aftermaths. There will be mistakes, post-case depression, visitors, confusion, arguments, adventures, danger & more. From Watson and Sherlock's perspectives. Canon relationships.
1. An Unrelated Detail

**HOLMES & WATSON**

**A series of short stories**

* * *

><p><strong>Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

_**The Unrelated Detail**_

Watson's POV

* * *

><p>...<p>

"There's a woman calling for you," I said, holding out his cell phone.

"Who is it?"

"Eva Beadle…"

Sherlock sprang from the couch where he had been lounging spread-eagle, whipped the phone from my hand, and held it to his ear. "Madam," he said calmly, "Firstly, if you phone me about your husband's illicit affair again, I shall have to come dispose of your phone myself. Secondly, your husband is currently enjoying a coffee at the pub with his mates like he does every Friday afternoon to avoid coming home to your arguments for at least an hour or so. Three, if you'd like to accuse your husband of seeing a young woman outside of your marriage, I suggest that next time you approach me on the street you do better to cover up the bruising along your neck from your own affairs—might I suggest finding a wider scarf? Good day to you."

Sherlock handed the phone back to me, sighed like a child on the first day of school, and fell into the couch again—this time face-first, with one leg still dangling on the floor.

An awkward silence followed. "How do you know the bruising was from an affair?" I asked finally, setting the phone aside, and sitting comfortably in the armchair.

"She said that her husband hadn't shown any physical attention to her in months, abusive or loving," Sherlock's voice was muffled in the pillow. He almost sounded as if he were laughing about it. "Tell me then, why did the woman have hickies on her neck?"

"She's a… professional kiss-o-gram?" I suggested sarcastically.

Sherlock's head twitched. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Bruising from a massage?"

"…close enough."

"Oh," I snapped, not enjoying the mental picture. "And you're sure about the pub?"

"Of course I am! I saw his tab and the owner." Sherlock turned over on the couch and looked up at me, rather pathetically. "Are you doubting my conclusion?"

"It was a rather brusque way to confront her, wasn't it?"

"She doesn't deserve my sympathy."

"But what if she does?" I mused quietly to myself. "Clearly, she's unhappy."

"What makes you think that?"

"Women who are happy in marriage do not seek out other partners, Sherlock."

"False—she could very easily be happy in marriage, but not _content._"

The phone buzzed again. Eva Beadle. Sherlock only buried his face again, and threw his arms over his head as if to block out the dramatics.

I answered. "Yes," I said simply, to not give away that it wasn't Sherlock.

"For the record," said her voice. It was broken, barely holding back tears. "The day I spoke to you—I was attacked…raped… two days prior, in the lot, behind my home. The man who attacked me was a youth with a record of sexual harassment and violence that I had never seen before. He is in custody now, the trial is in a few weeks. It had nothing to do with my suspicions about my husband, nor any relationship outside of our marriage. I think you're a capable man—to do what you do—but there will always be an occasion when you are wrong. I suggest you remember this conversation the next time you are convinced that you are correct."

_Beep._

Sherlock raised himself on one elbow. "I was wrong about _something, _I can see it in your face. Go on. Tell me. I can handle it."

I set the phone down slowly. "She wasn't having an affair. She was raped by a complete stranger a few days before she spoke to you."

To say that Sherlock was surprised was an understatement. He looked crushed, but only for a moment. He flopped casually backwards, face up, pressing his hands together as if in prayer and putting his fingers to his lips.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "I made a mistake."

"You did not make a deduction. You made an assumption," I responded, stiffly.

"I suppose I did."

* * *

><p>The End<p> 


	2. A Case Finale

**HOLMES & WATSON**

**A series of short stories**

* * *

><p><strong>Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter II<strong>

_**A Case Finale, One of Many**_

Watson's POV

* * *

><p>1<p>

"Holmes," I hissed, "Are you sure you're prepared to use that?"

Sherlock was fumbling with the gun in his hands. "Of course I am," he snapped, highly offended.

"Why don't you give it to me," I said casually. "I am a better shot."

"Oh, shut _up,"_ Sherlock whispered. "The ex-sea captain guarding the door will hear you, and then, we might as well be dead."

I was just about to ask _how _he knew that the guard was an ex sea-captain, when two shapes appeared in my peripheral vision, and before I could speak any kind of warning, we were hit on the backs of our heads simultaneously.

* * *

><p>2<p>

I woke up first. Sherlock was face-down on the floor beside me, hands tied behind his back. I was sitting in a chair, arms tied likewise.

_This is feeling oddly familiar—are they all going to end like this?_

"What—what?" I said, disoriented. "You—Sherlock! _Sherlock!_"

"He'll be coming around soon, I shouldn't wonder," said one of our assailants. He wore a dark stocking mask, and stepped forward under a bluish light. It was the only light in the room, one of the few offices in the entirety of the wide warehouse, riddled with hallways and machines and things that I did not understand. He held Sherlock's gun in his hands. I wondered if the small anchor tattoo on the back of his hand had anything to do with Sherlock's deduction about his profession. The other accomplice remained in darkness, standing behind his fellow with a small metal pipe in his hands.

"Why is he on the floor?" I demanded. "Is he hurt?"

"Except for a headache, he shouldn't be too hurt," said the man, "And we only had one chair. We hoped the esteemed Doctor would be more comfortable."

Sherlock groaned, and shifted, trying to sit up and not succeeding. He looked over at me, a look of hopelessness in his eyes. It inspired a chuckle in our captor.

Then Sherlock winked, and I realized his look of despair was completely contrived. He's playing them—of course he is. He has a plan.

* * *

><p>3<p>

"I'll ask you again—what are ya doing here?" the tip of the gun was very cold against my forehead.

_Funny to come back from a war only to be shot just a few blocks from my warm, comfortable bed._

"Don't do it," Sherlock cried, mouth muffled against the hard floor. "Don't!"

"Are you telling him not to tell me WHY you are trespassing, or are you telling me not to shoot him?" asked the man, grinning. I could tell by the way the corners of his mouth turned up in the hills of his cheeks beneath his mask.

_Shooting me… with Sherlock's own damn gun._

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said coldly.

_What is he playing at? He just forgot to use the concerned tone he's been using for the past ten minutes._

"Sher_lock_," I said tightly, clearly strained. The man ground the gun into my forehead. I fought to stay steady, but the stress of being unprepared for a life-threatening incident tonight was beginning to weigh on me.

"Wat_son_," he replied, almost sarcastically. Clearly I was missing something. What was it?

"You blokes have something to do with the break-in," spat the man angrily. "What is it? Blackmail? You the police?"

"More or less," I said through gritted teeth.

"Doesn't matter anyway," he replied, and he pulled the trigger.

My stomach leapt in my throat, but I barely had time to blink before I realized that the gun only clicked.

"Not… loaded," muttered Sherlock.

"Not loaded," I exhaled, relief running in a cold chill down my back and arms.

And that was when I was finally able to pull my wrists through the rope.

* * *

><p>4<p>

It was only a manner of time before I had knocked aside the mans arm, used him to propel myself forward, kicked the pipe out of the other man's hands, and threw myself to my knees beside Sherlock, jerking the makeshift rope off of his hands. We were both to our feet in an instant, prepared to meet our recovered criminals. They were fisted and ready for a fight, but the gleam in their eyes were pure fear at the realization that we were not any ordinary trespassers.

* * *

><p>5<p>

Both, down. One, unconscious. One dizzy and barely holding on. Police lights and Sherlock standing victoriously with a very, _very, _small USB drive in his hands.

"Plots to take over the world, Watson," he said dramatically, pressing it to his pursed lips and then tossing it to me. I caught it in both hands and, without the dramatics, examined it and found nothing of interest about it.

"The world?" I said dryly.

"Actually, blueprints for nuclear devices passed from Bin Laden's last surviving post and to his correspondent in Britain. If someone actually put these blueprints into prototypes, it could endanger the entire eastern hemisphere. The western would follow in—say—a minute or two."

I stared down at the USB. I shivered and handed it back to him. "The world… _indeed_."

"No one should have that much power," Sherlock said, as if giving instructions to a small child. He passed off the USB to Scotland Yard's best and thrust his hands in his pockets. "Unless they are intelligent enough to come up with it themselves."

The metaphor was lost on me, but I assumed it was some slight on the human race, failing to be as competent as he, when it came to matters of deduction and observation.

* * *

><p>The End<p> 


	3. The X Factor

**HOLMES & WATSON**

**A series of short stories**

* * *

><p><strong>Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter III<strong>

_**The X Factor**_

Watson's POV

* * *

><p>...<p>

Sherlock," I asked, as we both focused on our laptops, ignoring one another. A sudden thought occurred to me, and I truly wondered what his answer might be. "What do you do about x factors?"

"Do you really think I pay attention to talent shows?" Sherlock looked up with disgust. "And I cannot predict the victor for you, if that is what you are asking."

"No—no I don't mean the telly show. I mean the x factor. In your cases."

Sherlock was suddenly interested. "Do elaborate?"

"In mathematical equations, one solves for x. What about in scientific formula, when for example, the x factor is not known until later—something you couldn't have known to begin with."

"I am well aware of the function of solving for x or including an x in scientific formulas. What is your point?"

"Well—I can phrase this differently, I suppose," I sat back and took a sip of tea, sighing. "That was just the first thing that came to mind. I guess what I'm really _wondering _is, what happens when you're surprised?"

"Surprised? You mean when I'm wrong?"

"No—no! You could be entirely right. About something. Say you've got a case, and not only have you pinpointed a criminal and where he is hiding, but say that all your deductions leave out an x factor. A sniper. Waiting for you. He's the x factor. He does not show up till later, and there's nothing to deduce that would leave you to suspect he is there."

Sherlock shook his head. "That is a terrible example."

"I know it is, but it's the best I can do. Now you're intelligent enough to know what I mean, so don't ask me to explain it again."

"Touchy, aren't we?"

"I'm just curious, Sherlock."

"I'm rarely surprised by x factors. There usually aren't any."

"Usually?"

Sherlock shoved back his chair, his ridiculously lanky figure nearly upsetting the tea on the desk. "When I am _surprised, _my dear doctor, it usually means I _lose. _Unless I can react quickly enough."

"Lose?"

"Lose the game, Watson. I am never surprised. If the misfortune arises in which I am surprised… then…"

Without finishing the thought, he suddenly whisked from the room, hollering loudly, "Mrs. Hudson! You're home! I can explain the state of your refrigerator. Do not panic."

* * *

><p>The End<p> 


	4. The Visitor

**HOLMES & WATSON**

**A series of short stories**

* * *

><p><strong>Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter IV<strong>

_**The Visitor**_

Sherlock's POV

...

* * *

><p>1<p>

"And when I say 'be nice' to her, I mean just that."

John Watson was agitated and sleep-deprived.

_The bags under his eyes; a no-brainer—a lack of sleep, three or four hours at the most._

Another nightmare at approximately 3:43 am when he called out in his sleep—woke himself up—and hyperventilated for fifteen seconds. He used the last of the milk when he made tea at 3:45 am…

_He intends to buy more, as I can tell by the 'milk' he scrawled in ink across the back of his hand… though it's already beginning to wear out, and he'd forget after washing his hands._

"Sherlock."

"John."

"You weren't even listening, were you?"

"You said 'be nice'—and you meant it."

"You _can _be nice, can't you, Sherlock? She's only here for a few hours. It's an eight-hour layover. She'll wants to have a lie-in, and I'll get her a cab to go back to the airport. There's really very little time for you to—to…"

"To what?"

"Oh, you know, to analyze her and make her feel uncomfortable. Please—if there is any social bone in your body, try to put it to use. I'm going to meet her now."

"Getting any milk, while you're out, by any chance?"

John glanced at the back of his hand, and sighed. With a peevish glare at me, he pulled a permanent marker off my side of the desk, drew a huge block-lettered "MILK" on the back of his hand, and marched from the flat—tossing the marker back over his shoulder, which I caught, and placed back where it belonged. _He should have used his own marker._

* * *

><p>2<p>

The Niece was ushered in by her doting uncle John. This was Harry's daughter, and due to Harry's current sexuality, I determined that this was the result of an unplanned pregnancy during her more experimental stages at a younger age. This was information that would surely be on John's blacklist.

They came into living room, where I had made some attempt to clean up. I had hoped John might be less severe with me if he saw that I made some effort—not to impress him or that sort of rubbish, but to simply curb the irritation he often felt towards me, which is a trivial annoyance I hope to deal with in much smaller increments than I have lately.

"Sherlock," John said amiably, noting the room with a slight smile. "This is my niece, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is my—flatmate, Sherlock. We've been working together as of late."

"I know, I've been reading your blog," Rebecca said with a tight smile.

_She seems to play friendly with her uncle, but she does not know him that well._

_Obviously uncomfortable, running one hand though long, recently dyed hair, a nervous trait…_ while the other hand was held out to me—

"Oh, yes, how do you do," I drawled slowly, shaking her hand.

_She doesn't tan, unnaturally or naturally._

_Left behind a very good friend, perhaps from primary school, based on the age and juvenile 'mates' bracelet._

_Callous on the top of the third finger of her right hand—writer?_

_No, gray smudges. Artist._

_Works with graphite pencils, too often to lose any of the stains while on winter vacation… she does the artwork outside of school._

"How is your artwork coming along?" I asked, trying to be friendly.

I was moderately taken aback when John sighed lightly, as if I had disappointed him. I mouthed, 'what?' and he only shrugged his shoulders as if I knew what he meant. Which, not to give myself too much credit, I did.

"Uh—very well. I sold my first piece last week," Rebecca laughed. This laugh was genuine. She looked at John. "Goodness, you were right," she said. "That's bloody amazing. And you didn't tell him I was an art major?"

"No, no, I didn't mention it. But he promised he wouldn't do _this,_" John smiled at his niece, and gave me a look, as if to say _stop that right now._

"Oh, I think it's interesting," Rebecca said.

"Maybe not all at once, eh?" John gave me a wide, slightly panicked grin. "I've—uh—gone and forgotten to make up the bed for you." He gave his niece a friendly pat on the arm, his own attempts to be familiar I suppose. "I want you to take a good report back to my sister, all right? And tell her that England is lonely without her. But do try and say it in a way that doesn't make her come back," he laughed.

Rebecca laughed too, wincing and tilting her head towards the right. _Hearing problem... _

"I know _exactly _what you mean," she said, her gaze suddenly whipped around the room, as if looking for the source of a sound.

_Ear ringing, apparently._

"Your sister must worry too much about you for it to be pleasant that she live within close quarters?" I asked. "You hope to, in some way, provide a familial sense of missing her presence and letting her know that, without actually prompting her to miss you enough that she'll come back and clutter up your life?"

John's grin was now a false one. "Uh—um, something like that. 'Clutter' is not the word I would choose."

"I would," Rebecca smiled at me. "Your distraught sister, or for me... a hysterically worried mother, are not something we want a daily dose of."

"Sherlock, why don't you get us some tea, while I make the bed," John said warily.

"Did you get the milk? Of course you didn't," I said pointedly. "Airport is in the opposite direction and your sleeve is too long for you to see the huge word printed across your hand during the drive. Nevertheless. I'll make tea." I whirled on heel and marched into the kitchen. To my surprise, Rebecca followed eagerly.

"He's busy," she said conspiringly. "And he made you promise you would not attempt to make any deductions about me, but you've already begun. I'd very much like to hear them."

I put the kettle on and turned on the stove. "It's observations. The science of deduction is how I eliminate the possibilities."

"So… what have you observed? Uncle John's blog makes you sound like a genius, I want to hear it for myself."

"Hm," I considered it. _Why not? Everything that follows from my mouth is what I've seen already, and now that she asks, what's the point of staying silent to simply keep John from getting his trousers in a bunch?_

I made a bit of a show of it, turning away from the kettle and giving Rebecca a pointed look, taking a careful catalogue of what I observed…

_Head tilt, callous third finger, graphite smudges, bracelet, hair dye, nervous trait, second-hand clothes, accent, eight-hour layover… I could go on and on. I'll have to narrow this down._

"Alright," I said flatly. "You keep your head tilted at the right angle because you have trouble hearing from your left ear—based on the look on your face, it's not an ear infection, but you're losing your hearing at a young age. Pity…"

Rebecca gave me a rueful smile and tapped her ear. "I can hardly hear a thing out of it."

"Except for the high-pitched ringing," I added.

"Wow. That happens far too often."

"The callous on the third finger of your right hand indicates holding pens or pencils for several hours at a time, the smudges are too light to be charcoal—plus those are held entirely differently—and pencils are not made with lead anymore. You're on winter vacation, not at school, so the artwork is occurring outside of school—pastime, or business."

"Oh—so _that's _how you guessed. It seems obvious."

_I didn't guess. _

"You left behind a friend, here in England, primary school."

Rebecca looked down at her bracelet. "Um, it was secondary school actually—but yeah, I did! When I moved away with mum, I mean, we hardly see each other anymore, but luckily…"

"You'll be able to visit for a few hours at the airport, won't you—before you go home for holiday?"

"And what makes you think that?"

"You've dyed and cut your hair recently?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"You're hoping to impress the one who made you the bracelet, remind him that you're still around, am I correct?"

Rebecca frowned. "Strange."

"Am I correct?"

"Yes, yes. We haven't seen each other in ages. I've always liked him. I thought I'd see if he was still wearing his. And we'd pick up where we left off."

I smirked. "Nervous about the layover, aren't we? Hoping that sleeping here for a few hours and going back to the airport will make your entrance—say—more interesting, having the opportunity to clean up a bit beforehand?"

"Something like that."

"Even though you don't know your mother's brother that well."

"I'll take my chances, he's a dear."

"Your mother lives in France," I began again.

"How did you know THAT?"

"John told me," I replied hastily. "But because of the eight-hour layover—it must be a crossing flight to having Christmas in France with your mother, after the longer flight from—hm—Harvard? Harvard must be out for the holidays now. Your accent is picking up some harsh 'R' sounds, none of them Irish. Could be American."

Rebecca's mouth dropped open. "Just by hearing my voice, you could tell I was going to Harvard?"

"Actually," I admitted tersely, "_That _was a guess."

* * *

><p>3<p>

"What did you say to her?" John said suspiciously, glancing towards his bedroom and lowering his voice. "I fixed it up in there, and the first thing she says is 'Uncle John, he's really not as bad as you say he is'."

I focused on the newspaper in my hands. "Maybe you should listen to your Niece, John."

"Meaning what?"

"Use your imagination," I said sarcastically.

"Oh, bother," he snapped, "You did that—thing—didn't you?"

"What thing?" I replied tersely.

"That thing where you tell them that the rip in their coat sleeve means they served for three years in South Africa in nineteen forty… four!"

"I fail to see how a coat rip would indicate serving in South Africa," I lowered the newspaper, giving him a demeaning look. "It's almost as if you don't know me at all."

"Oh! You DID!" John was aghast. "You probably picked the whole girl apart, didn't you? And she liked it of course. The women are always fascinated."

"Are they—who?" I demanded. _That's the last time I ever give him permission to use his imagination… the strange things he says…_

"Like Molly," John explained. "Fascinated, of course. Hardly knows what to do with herself when you've picked apart her appearance. Even though it hurts her feelings, it only makes her like you more."

"Like me? What on earth are you talking about?"

"A BLIND MAN could see that she likes you, Sherlock."

"Fine," I snapped, "Whatever you say."

"Oh, don't pull that pouty thing…"

"I do not _pout._"

"Yes you do."

"Invite her over for Christmas," I said, returning to my paper.

"Excuse me?"

"Lestrade and Mycroft are coming. Mrs. Hudson has it all arranged. Invite Molly."

"Invite… Molly?"

"Sorry—did you not hear me?"

"No, no, it's just…" John shook his head and almost smiled. "It just almost seems _thoughtful _of you. That's all."

"I'm capable of inviting a person over to our home," I said dryly.

"I'm… I'm sure," John chuckled to himself.

Silence fell.

"Did you know your niece has hearing problem?" I asked casually. John's teacup clattered.

* * *

><p>4<p>

"Did she sleep well?" I asked politely.

"Yes, very well," John said. "We didn't wake her up with out little discussion, if that's what you were wondering."

"I wasn't wondering that at all."

"Something rather peculiar, happened, though."

"What?"

"When we got to the airport and said our goodbyes, some young man came charging through the doors and practically snogged her. Right there. We were driving away by that time—but she didn't seem to be in any trouble. I called to her from the cab and asked, and she waved me on happily... But still. I wondered…"

"An old friend from secondary school, I shouldn't wonder," I mused lightly.

John just raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?"

"Indeed."

"And how would you know that?"

"I can't tell you my secrets _every _time. I simply observed—"

"Yes, yes, I know all that," John said irritatingly. He slammed a bottle of milk into the refrigerator, slammed it, and left the flat again.

"And we're out of tea," I called after him.

"I'm getting a coffee."

"We're English. We can't last long without tea."

"Get it yourself!"

"But you're going to walk by the shop anyhow."

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew which direction I'm going."

"Your footwear was an indicator. It isn't rocket science, you know."

The door slammed.

* * *

><p>The End<p> 


	5. An Unpublished Entry

**HOLMES & WATSON**

**A series of short stories**

* * *

><p><strong>Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter V <strong>

_**An Unpublished Entry**_

John's POV

* * *

><p>...<p>

I'm not the first person to lose a friend to death. I'm not the first to lose a best friend. I am in the pitied percentage of those who lost a friend, a best friend, to suicide. There are others who have suffered the same—for them, I feel nothing but a communal sorrow.

But I am alone in my memory; that I saw him fall to his death.

That is… jumping to his death.

That is not something I ever thought I'd hear. Ever. Not in a hundred years. Now every newspaper and website seems to thrust the words in my face over and over. At first I thought that would hurt, the literature of it all, lasting far longer than public scrutiny ever should. But I came to feel nothing, because essentially, the words meant very little.

It was the imagery that stayed with me.

You know when a parent tosses a small child in the air, and they scream with the terror of the free fall—with a beautiful little smile on their face, knowing the loving arms that waited for them?

That's what I thought about, when his limbs flailed, and his legs kicked. As gravity sucked him down in fast-forward. He smiled for a moment, on the phone. I heard it in his voice. The pitch changes in his tone, when the cheekbones are graced with smile-wrinkles that are too rarely used. The smile is what caught me off guard. It was going to be okay—that chuckle wouldn't arrive without good reason. He wouldn't laugh. Not if he wanted to die.

But he still jumped. And there was no joy in his free fall—unless—unless, oh, God…

Unless while he fell, he felt free.

His room is a mess. Its disgusting. Smells strange too, like a waste-bin and blood. I found nothing that I could take, and hold, and feel comforted. It was foolish to snoop around, but I was hoping for… what, exactly? A note? A clue that directed me to where he had hidden? Hidden from all the world—except me—because I was the exception! If he were going to fake his death, he would tell _me._

I would have been the one to help the public accept his 'death'; I could have played along.

If he wanted to disappear, I could have covered his tracks.

But the bastard had to throw himself off of a building, instead.

But why would he do it? To me? How could he?

Maybe he jumped, and felt suspended in nothing… no guilt. No shame. No petty stresses. No reputation to uphold. He was a fly, and he escaped from the web of Moriaty. But in order to escape, he had to lose. And die.

He didn't set those cases up. He was a liar—that's for sure. He lied to me about _being _a fraud. I know who he is. And he is anything but a fraud.

I can't blog this. But I can write this, though I can't bring myself to type out his name. I don't get past the first letter. I'll save the document and tuck it away. The case of the missing blog entry… he'd make fun of me for that. I can't ignore the blog though. There is a whole crowd of breathless loyalists… waiting for my comment. They believe in him, and so do I. Just because the Times and the Sun are feasting on his bones, that doesn't mean he doesn't have friends—fans—a very dedicated readership that have some sort of genuine love for him.

I've typed a short entry for the blog. But what's the use? It doesn't express _this. _What I feel. Why I feel like crumbling up, why I haven't eaten anything yet and it's half-past three.

I just feel so bloody angry. Bloody cheated. It's not fair to us. To me. He could have just come down, and talked to me. I could have talked him out of it—I know I could have. Long enough to convince him it wasn't hopeless.

As usual he couldn't listen to anyone, not even me.

Not even to hear that he was going to be okay.

* * *

><p>The End<p> 


	6. The Unexpected Baptism

**HOLMES & WATSON**

**A series of short stories**

* * *

><p><strong>Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter VI<strong>

_**An Unexpected Baptism**_

John's POV

...

* * *

><p>"Are we going to hail a horse and carriage?" I asked sarcastically, staring out at the desolate moor that lay before us. The air was chilly, and I shivered.<p>

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, glancing at me critically as he pulled on his leather gloves. "We're walking."

"Walking, yes, of course, naturally," I repeated dully, non-too thrilled about it. If he had only warned me, instead of kidnapping me in a cabby before I had reached Baker St, I would have put on boots and a thicker jacket. At this point, the jeans, runners, and blazer would have to do.

"You may go on back to that inn," Sherlock leaned down to the cabby's window, pulling out a few bills to pay him. "And return to this point in precisely forty minutes."

"Why not thirty-five," I said under my breath. "Or forty-two? Or forty-four?"

The cabby looked at him incredulously. "You want me to leave you 'ere?"

"That's right. We're conducting private business."

The cabby looked a little terrified. "You _do _know, sir, that there was a murder out 'ere? The bus'ness is nice, an' all, but I don't want my customers gettin' gutted while they wait."

Sherlock handed him a few more bills. "Just do what I ask."

"All right, all right, forty minutes then," the cabby tapped the dashboard clock, put the cab in reverse, and soon disappeared into the shroud of mist.

The hillsides lay spread out on either side of the dirt road, roving and small, with God-knows-what nestled in their miniature valleys. The clouds were white and low, threatening to snow or rain. A bank of white mist lay on the horizon line, preventing any scene-scape except what was in range of a (roughly) five mail radius.

"And why didn't you bother to tell me there was a murder out here?" I asked dryly.

"Haven't you been read the paper this morning?" Sherlock asked sharply. "Didn't you listen to anything I said on the way?"

"You said we were going to investigate for shoe-prints!"

"It is only natural that those shoe-prints could lead us to a murder weapon or where the murderer is hiding," Sherlock said defensively.

"I thought it was a missing person," I mumbled.

"Well—you're right about that. The murderer _is _missing, but according to the chief investigator of this area, fled town."

"If we're out of London's limits, why are we here?"

"The chief investigator is a friend of Lestrade. We were recommended."

"Oh, 'we' were?"

"Well—I was. You were implied."

"Ha," I snapped. "And if the investigator thinks the murderer fled the area, then why…"

"My belief is that he never left the moor."

"So he's out there somewhere?"

"Hopefully."

"_Hopefully,_" I mocked. "If we're going to die today, out here, Sherlock—I hope you die first, so that I may have a few seconds of holding you personally responsible before I die as well."

Sherlock only found my irritation vaguely amusing, and chuckled in response. He stepped off the road and began walking regally through the squelching grass, hands in his pockets and collar turned up obnoxiously. Like an annoyed terrier with a forgetful master, I began plodding after him. I wondered if he hadn't passed me on the street if he would have come out here anyway, alone, looking for a murderer, with the nearest person in a cab forty minutes away. The thought made me frown.

We soon lost sight of the road, coming over the broad of a hill, and descending its steep, rolling side. As we began to ascend the opposite side, after sloshing through a large puddle turning into a creek, and Sherlock began to inform me of our case.

"The murder took place yesterday at 8:26 a.m.," Sherlock stated briskly, "The victim was 53-year-old Jessica Marple, who was walking her dog on the moor. When her dog returned without her, to the farm-house in which they live, her husband went searching for her. He found her body—down there, and then phoned the police." Sherlock pointed down the side of the hill, where the ground flattened for several meters. Running through the center of the small, muddy plain was a creek.

"A blunt blow to the head, three times in succession, died within minutes," Sherlock said absently. I always wondered if sympathy was as foreign to him as it seemed to be.

"And the husband didn't do it?" I asked.

"He was at home, caring for his ailing mother, who lives with them. They were together all morning. He never left the house."

"Did his mother lie?"

"No, there was proof."

"What kind of proof?"

"He made a phone call to her doctor, let the dog in at precisely 8:42 a.m., and signed for a delivery—satisfied?"

"I suppose so. It just seems odd that someone would be out in a wasteland like this."

"So do I," Sherlock skidded in some mud, but caught himself and pretended it didn't happen. He reached the edge of the creek, and glanced down into it.

The creek, which I'm sure was usually peaceful and gray, was flooded with light brown water, about twenty-five feet across. An old beeched log placed across it to serve as a footbridge. The current was fast, and old branches and trash came barreling through on the surface, scraping the bottom of the trunk-bridge. On the left, it continued in a snake-shaped, wandering line towards the property of the murder victim. On the right, it continued on through the moor till it disappeared in a brushy crevice. The trunk had been sawn in half, so that the flatter side faced upwards, and the curve of the bark kept it secured on the banks. Despite the signs of it having never moved in—say—a few years, the look of it still made me a little nervous.

"This does not look safe," I muttered, rubbing my hands together in the cold.

"Of course it's not," Sherlock replied, "But if you'll notice the grass grown around the edges and the indications of it's daily use by the farmers—"

"It hasn't been moved in over three years, I noticed," I said off-hand.

Sherlock glanced at me in pleasant surprise. "Good. Yes—indeed. You're no longer just noticing things, John, you're observing them!" He lithely crossed over the bridge, his long and thin figure looking like a marionette without strings.

I stepped up onto the log and looked down the bank, a good six feet or so of mud, into the torrential creek. "Melting snows somewhere," I remarked, crossing and hopping off the end of the log. "I wonder how deep it is."

"No matter," Sherlock moved on. "So this is where the body lay…"

I unconsciously stepped backwards. "Any stains or prints?"

Sherlock's head twisted this way and that, as he hunched over and examined the ground. "One print… but it's not… shoes."

"What is it, then?"

"When I know, I will tell you," Sherlock pointed to a small indentation on the ground, a single, circular mark, and then a pair of them, repeated several times over, leading across the flatness of the creek bank, and finally continuing on into the rolling country far beyond.

Sherlock began to follow it up the hill, a hound-dog on a hunt. For some reason, I stayed behind, feeling a keen interest in the bits of torn turf. Was this because of the weight of her falling body? Did she fight off her assailant? How was her poor husband coping with this? What kind of motive would a person have for killing an innocent woman walking her dog?

"WATSON!" Sherlock rarely barked my last name, unless a few usages of "John" hadn't been loud enough for me to hear. I snapped to, and followed him across the flatness of the green, and then began up the steady incline.

His head popped up on the other side. "You are my blogger, are you not?"

"Hmph, I'd like to think so," I huffed.

"Then do hurry up, I've got _facts _to share, and I _do _hope you'll represent them accordingly, instead of dwelling on the danger of it."

Something thrilled me about the word _danger, _but I still hoped we wouldn't run into a murderer.

Time dragged on and on. I followed him around as he ranted and raved to himself. He formed one hypothesis, only to forget it entirely and make a new one—simply because of a scuff mark on a rock, a small toe-print from a shoe, and the tiniest stub of a cigarette—three factual pieces of evidence that he entreated me to make note of.

Two of which turned out to be unrelated, the only clue that boggled him was the minimalist shoe print. It was times like these that I felt the most useless. Telling the time from the rocks and trees was certainly not my strong point. Give me an injured body, and I can not only perform to the best of my intelligence, but help Sherlock in a way that would render him helpless. But looking at the frozen grass after an injury and death has already occurred? Not exactly inspiring my highest qualities.

"If you can't figure out whatever it is you are trying to figure out, shall I still relate these facts in my blog?" I asked, after a half-hour of exhausted, critical observation.

"Do I detect frustration?" Sherlock said, amused.

"I detect hypothermia," I replied. By this time, our breath was emerging in puffy white clouds, the tips of our noses were bright pink, and me—who had no gloves, mind you—was beginning to feel numb nothingness instead of vital extremities.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said distractedly. "Right. It's cold, isn't it?"

"Just," I muttered.

"Right. Well, it's about time to meet the cabby. But I am not through here. I still haven't examined…"

"Examined WHAT? There's nothing to examine!"

"Oh yes, there is. Just down the hill, to our right, there's another small creek, several small trees, and a large grouping of boulders. What better place to conceal something?"

"Oh, like a murderer?" I said with false enthusiasm.

"Why YES, John, a _murderer!_" Sherlock replied with the same enthusiasm, trying to imitate the higher pitch of my voice.

It reminded me of the time he tried to impersonate a twelve-year-old girl to garner information from a witness to a crime; a young girl sitting on a park bench with her friends. The girls he spoke in that manner started shouting 'pedophile' and ran away. In my opinion, it was one of my fonder memories.

"I'll meet the cabby and tell him to wait for you," I said shortly, whirling and walking back the direction we had come.

"John, don't be cross with me!"

"I won't be cross when I can feel my limbs again," I called back, sighing. "Meet me back there in fifteen minutes. If you don't, I am going to assume the worst."

"You strike a hard bargain," growled Sherlock, beginning to march the other way, headed towards the outcroppings of brush and rocks.

Obviously having an off-day (only Lestrade was under the false impression that our work together was always compatible) I felt no regret in leaving Sherlock to do his work alone for a time. He's been doing it alone for years—a few minutes would not deprive him of a second opinion completely… only, to my small satisfaction, remind him why he wanted me around in the first place.

The creek had curiously widened during our investigations, swollen to the point of overflowing its banks. The puddles around the flats had formed miniscule ponds, which clustered together and fell in waterfalls over the edges and into the creek. It was one, large, marshland, where land and water were the same.

The current was faster and as brown as ever, plummeting downstream with a wintery roar of melting landslides somewhere farther up, possibly in the woods or near the construction of the farmland drainage systems miles away.

Water sloshed up to my ankles, soaking through the shoes and socks. I grimaced and took each step carefully, approaching the edge of the log to cross the creek—a small river now, thanks to nature's odd little habit of making things bigger and less predictable.

I stepped up on the log, and frowned when it did not feel as secure as before. I was sure it was just my imagination. A silly part of me believed that if Sherlock knew it hadn't been moved in several years, it had surely seen flooding worse than this, and I was perfectly safe.

I took another step, and the other end of the log slowly rose up from its place on the bank. The mud had softened, and my weight loosened its stability, until it was out of its foundation. Before I could think, the log lightly rolled over.

For only a panicked second of waving my arms to regain balance, I was plunged into the creek—what I thought—would be about waist-deep and extremely unpleasant.

I was shocked to the core when the water engulfed me completely, closing over my head like the lid of a coffin.

And with that, it suddenly occurred to me... from nowhere, really... There was someone else on the moor that day, a stranger, someone that wasn't examined. I had to tell Sherlock.

I didn't try and work against the current; it would be useless. Instead I just tried to direct my body towards the shore, the side where the cabby would be waiting. Out of nowhere, there was another branch in the water, half-sunken, with its base entangled in the blackberry vines along the bank. I curled my numb fingers around the branch, hoping the visual would be enough to make up for what I wasn't feeling.

I slowly began to inch my hands up the branch, taking me closer and closer to land. When I was close enough, I buried one fist in the grass, found the ground with my feet—(hmm, almost five-and-a-half feet deep just off the edge, how's _that _for 'shallows'?)—and then, I was leaning over the edge.

I crawled up the rest of the way and stood very, very slowly, my legs and arms feeling weak. My body shuddered in reply, the cold settling all around and the heat rushing away from my heart to warm the arms and legs. I took a few test steps.

I can't believe it took a foolish plunge in dirty ditch water to have a brilliant theory.

_I'll show him, _I thought, shivering victoriously.

I began to trudge, slowly and deliberately, parallel to the wide, rushing creek. I came around the bend to find the flat, marshy area.

And there was the log, tipped onto the wrong side. _I need to get to the cabby and tell him we'll be late, _I thought. _But Sherlock still needs to cross the creek._

The right thing to do for myself, of course, would be to get to the road quickly, find the cabby, tell him to turn up the heat at gradual increments and jump inside the automobile. But my mind was jumbled with the freezing temperature.

My only thought was—_obviously, I'll have to wait here, and make sure Sherlock crosses the log safely. Can't have the same thing happen to him, now, can we?_

I looked blearily across the creek at the startled face of Sherlock, standing poised at the edge of the creek.

"What happened to you?" he demanded.

"Took a refreshing dip," I remarked with some difficulty. "I'll hold this end down, otherwise you'll fall in too."

"_Idiot,_" he said.

"Oh yes, you too," I said, still feeling the victor in an unnamed game. My hands were shaking as I planted my knees firmly on the ground, and held the end of the log down with both hands.

_Holy hell, it is so bloody cold. _

Sherlock crossed like a wraith, barely touching the surface. He grabbed my shoulders and shouted loudly in my ear, "What the hell is _wrong _with you?"

"I am not deaf," I blurted. "I did not lose my hearing. But I am losing the feeling in my fingers, so, shall we proceed please?"

Sherlock pulled off his black, wool peacoat and threw it around my shoulders.

"Thank-you," I stuttered, teeth chattering. It was surprisingly thoughtful.

"Don't be sentimental. You need to get warm," Sherlock said irritatingly. "Why do you think I gave you my coat? It was not a gesture. I shall expect it back later."

I hadn't even asked anything, yet he acted as if I were asking pestering questions. "And it is about ten degrees below freezing, if you care to know," he added, "Though the temperature is rising and the fog is burning off, though not quickly enough for you, I'm afraid."

I protested. "I can't t-t-t-take care of m-m-m-myself." I wanted to laugh, but Sherlock looked far too serious.

"Can you?" He replied stiffly. "I shall take my coat back, then."

"No!" I exclaimed. "I do not want to die of an afterdrop from hypothermia, thank-you."

"Certainly," Sherlock said, obviously not to be won over.

"Did you find an-n-n-n-nything?"

"To be honest—I've hit, as they say, a dead end."

"Oh r-r-r-r-eally," I replied. I was waiting to share my news. I wanted to savor the moment of my having a brilliant theory while he had none at all.

"Come _on,_" urged Sherlock impatiently. As we began to descend the hill, we could see the anxious face of the cabby, waiting inside a warm vehicle. In a rare display of odd skill (he's always full of surprises) Sherlock put his fingers to his mouth and gave a shrill, alerting whistle.

The cabby's head jerked up, and he stepped out of the vehicle.

"Thought ya died!" he called cheerfully, waving. "And you're late, but I waited!"

"I don't exactly have time for casual and painfully annoying small conversations or greetings," Sherlock shouted down to him, "Lend us your jacket."

The cabby went into a tizzy. "Did the murderer try to drown ya?" he yelped, running towards us.

"Twas merely an unsound crossing over a flooded creek," Sherlock replied crisply. "Do have the courtesy not to panic."

Within moments I was happily sitting in the back of the cab. The cabby loaned me his jacket, and Sherlock sat next to me. The cabby revved the engine, and turned on the heat full-blast.

My teeth chattered so loudly that even when I laughed it was drowned out by the sound of my shaking jaw.

Sherlock kept checking his mobile, and whispering, "Damnit," every few minutes.

"Wh-wh-what's th' p-p-p-prob'lm?" I asked.

"No service," Sherlock said shortly. "I have to confess my utter failure to England's finest. How humiliating that I should find nothing."

I snorted.

"THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER," Sherlock barked, and then crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out the window as if I had insulted him.

We reached the inn quickly enough, and Sherlock jumped out of the cabbie, holding his mobile out in front of him. He ran around the yard in circles till he finally snapped "Got ya!" and put the phone to his ear.

I paid the cabbie. When I tried to return his jacket, he gave it a disgusted look and said, "Keep it, mate. Cows piss in those ditches."

"Thank-y-y-y-y-you," I said, with a cringe.

My shoes made horrifyingly hilarious squelching sounds as I hobbled towards the inn's entrance. I couldn't help but listen in on Sherlock's phone call.

"We're at Moreway Inn, yes, and I've come from investigating the site. Ah, yes, well, distractions occurred. My friend fell into a creek. He's out now—what? Out? No, he's conscious, thank-you, I meant he is out of the _creek. _England's finest, I'm sure... No, I _shan't _stay on the line, I only found service in this spot and I'm standing in the middle of a fountain. I am going to take my friend inside the inn where it is warmer. Goodbye."

...

The inn had a fire in the lobby. Before going up to my room to change into dry clothes, I stopped for a moment, holding my hands near the hearth. It felt wonderful.

"Are you feeling alright?" Sherlock asked, tonelessly.

"Much better," I said, glancing at him curiously. _Do I detect a bit of worry? _

"Right," he replied. "Good."

He lapsed into the pouty silence again.

"This is unusual, for you, while you're on a case," I said, rubbing my palms together. "You are not a man of little words. Unless you haven't been out of a dressing gown for six days and eat nothing but crackers. While we're out investigating, usually I can't get you to shut up."

Sherlock stuck out his lip like a toddler.

"Oh, god, seriously," I said with frustration, "I am the one who takes the icy plunge, and I am asking you what's wrong? Naturally, of course. What ever is the matter with you NOW?"

"I assume after this failure you do not want to be involved in my cases anymore," Sherlock said, as if depression had crawled from a pit and slapped him across the face. "I wanted to say that I would understand."

"That's ridiculous," I laughed.

"Really?"

"Yes, it is." I repeated. "I am not so easily put off."

Sherlock gave me a very rare smile.

_Oh, what would he have done if I said I wouldn't be involved anymore? Throw himself into the creek?_

"So, tell me, I know you believe you're a failure and all," I said, "But did you observe anything unusual?"

"The clues don't make sense to me," Sherlock admitted, letting himself frown about that revelation. It must be exhausting to be him. "There was a partial toe-print from a boot. _One. _Nothing else... and no one saw anyone that didn't perfectly belong there."

"And the dog returned home, instead of defending it's mistress. It was someone that the dog had met before."

"You may just have the right idea," Sherlock congratulated me, a very small hint of a smile on his face. "I _told _you it was nice to have a second opinion. And I usually don't waste words."

I think this would be as close as he'd ever get to a compliment.

"Well," I shrugged aimlessly, "Be sure to run the DNA against the suspects, especially those who do not appear in the database."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved his hand. "The husband and even the frail mother. Perhaps an ex boyfriend."

"And the delivery man," I said slyly.

You could have dropped a pin in the lobby. Sherlock's mouth dropped open.

"He was on the moor," I said. "Prior to the murder. Delivery truck, nothing unsuspecting, because he _did _delivery a package, you said so yourself that the husband signed for a delivery... so he was not out of place. Perhaps he ran into her on his way? The dog would know him, would he not?"

"If the man has the same route on a weekly basis!" Sherlock snapped his fingers.

"He could have stopped his truck on the road, followed her over the hill, killed her, and simply returned to his truck. Then he went to her own home and the husband signed for the delivery and never had a suspicion."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, just short of shouting huzzah. "I do hope you fall into creeks more often," he said, in a rare example of comedic effort, "It gave you a brief moment of brilliance."

...

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><p>The End<p> 


	7. Casualties of War

**HOLMES & WATSON**

**A series of short stories**

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><p><strong>Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.<strong>

* * *

><p>...<p>

**Chapter VII**

_**Casualties of War**_

Sherlock's POV

...

* * *

><p>The park bench was been occupied by all sorts of people. It carried the scent of expensive perfumes, marijuana, body odor, and aftershave. It was home to stale gum stuck to the undersides, stains of car grease and lunch condiments, and a homeless person slept across it every night.<p>

"How do you know a homeless person sleeps here every night?" John asked.

"Oh, was I talking aloud?"

"Yes. How do you know?"

"The space on the ground by your feet. A cigarette is put out here, not once, but every night, it has worn a hole in the turf. Though the cigarettes are swept away by public clean up, it happens often enough for the burn to remain. Someone sleeps across it, on their stomach, putting their cigarette out within arms reach on the ground, but they leave in the morning before 7 a.m."

"Before 7? Isn't that a little too specific?"

"Nonsense, the morning paper is delivered and left for this business under this very bench, due to the many bits and pieces of advertisements that have fallen out of it and left under here to rot in the ground. This current paper, as you can see, has recently been ruined by the rain. If the homeless person had been laying here after it's delivery at seven in the morning, his own body would have shielded it from getting wet. We're on a slight decline, so no water would seep towards the paper, but rather away from us to the storm drain… so, he left right before its delivery."

"Fascinating," he said, sounding altogether not fascinated. There was once a time when this man was actually impressed by my observations on a daily basis.

"It is merely what I see."

"Yes, but—ahem—what are we doing here again?" John hesitated. "We're not looking for anyone in particular."

"Studying the traffic."

"Is that really what we're doing?"

"The girl was killed in the flat directly across the street from where we are sitting. The killer waited until her flatemate left for a three-hour long lecture and when her mobile was on the charger in the other room. The killer was very familiar with her surroundings and her personal habits and most intimate daily schedule. To be that familiar—and yet have all the family members, her boyfriend, flatemate, and school mates check out with perfect alibis? It doesn't make sense—someone knew her well enough to plan it perfectly. If the killer was that familiar, so should the detective be!"

"Putting yourself in the killer's shoes."

"Metaphorically."

John rolled his eyes. "I can do this too."

"Oh, can you?" I laughed doubtfully.

John glared at me swiftly. "You'd be surprised, I've been practicing." A large car pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street, and a woman slipped out of the passenger side.

"Tell me all about the woman," I said.

"She's going to the hair salon?" John suggested. To the amateur, perhaps. She was walking towards the salon as we spoke.

"The tavern. Her hair has already been done, it has been straightened and high lighted. She wouldn't go to the salon with hair like that. She is wearing heels and large earrings, trying to be taller, flashier—more attractive—the clothes are form fitting, but never mind that the denim she is wearing was out of style in the late nineties. She has been out of the dating scene for a while and doesn't know any better. She had a friend drop her off, she isn't driving herself so she plans on drinking alcohol and plans on getting a cab afterwards, though it isn't a party because no one arranges for parties at bars at 3 pm. Her friend was there to wish her luck, perhaps, she's meeting someone on a date, perhaps someone she met on the internet, otherwise she may have just taken a cab here. Of course, he's most likely married—many of them are."

The door opened in front of the woman. She gave her long hair a sweep off her shoulder for effect as she grinned at the man who opened it for her from the inside. He smiled back, putting a hand in the small of her back to usher her inside. His ring finger bore signs of redness and swelling—it is his first affair, for he must have worked at the wedding ring for an hour or less before it finally came off.

"Of course, she goes into the tavern," John said, trying not to yawn. Suddenly, he sat up all the straighter. He has come to some great theory, I'm sure.

"Sherlock," he said, "What are we seeing in the flat's windows?"

"I see the edge of the countertop, kitchen, then—and that miniscule window there can only be above a shower or in a basement. Since it is a second story, shower window. Especially since it is made with the foggy, bubble-patterned glass."

"Did she charge her mobile in the kitchen?"

"Most likely at the outlet where her keys and calendar are hanging. But that is most of what can be seen from here."

"And the killer knew her flatmate was gone for a lecture, you said?"

"Obviously."

"When was the lecture?"

"A seven thirty lecture—on the topics of _Natural Literature. _Rubbish."

John stood up from the bench as if it were hurting him to do so. He held out his hands, like a piano player, walking himself through the scenario. "Roommate leaves for a seven thirty lecture, the victim puts the phone on the charger at the edge of the countertop and steps into the bathroom to take a shower. Before noon the roommate calls in tears saying she found her roommate dead when she returned from school."

"Boyfriend."

"What?"

"I'd say it is the boyfriend, I met the chap, he was sleeping around anyhow, clearly wasn't happy with the relationship. But his alibi checks out."

John looked down at the bench. I followed his gaze. _Aha. I see._

"Someone familiar with her morning routine?" John said, slowly, horrified. "Someone who, say, lays on the bench every morning and gets up when the paper is delivered?"

"This is a very good vantage point," I said, smiling at John's capability to put a solid, legitimate theory together. "And anyone who spends a morning here, every morning, could know her schedule intimately without being a friend or a relative." I jumped to my feet. "Brilliant—John—brilliant! It _is _little to go on, but I'm relieved to see your mind hasn't been wasted on civilian life."

John made an obvious pause, something about the phrase _civilian life _didn't suit him.

"What?" I said with a tired sigh. "It'll only turn into a mildly inebriated blog post unless you say what is on your mind."

"Just something your brother said once."

"My brother?"

"Mycroft…"

"I know who my brother is."

"_Mycroft,_" John continued stiffly, "Once said to be that those who walk in the city see people, traffic, normality, etc. But when you walk with Sherlock Holmes… you see the battlefield."

I furrowed my eyebrows.

"If this is true, and the _observations _you make, if it really is such a curse that it cannot be turned off—forced to see and _know _and deduce every waking moment—if that is really what it is like for you, Mycroft is right. It is a sort of battlefield. The action just never stops."

"What are you on about!"

"If this is a battlefield, then I am no longer a civilian," John said, doing a funny little embarrassed cough and trying to appear as if he didn't want to finish the thought out loud. He looked to the flat with sadness. "Even here—_even here—_there are casualties of war."

The poetics aside, John's sentiment was clear. Death saddens him in a way I cannot really understand, for while I see the facts, John sees a loss. In this way we will always be on opposing sides—and I do sometimes forget that he was not always my blogger. He was once a soldier, and for all my intelligence and the lack thereof in other petty peoples, I myself could never deduce away a bullet.

And in this revelation, I chose not to argue his sadness as I usually might have done.

"Yes John," I said, wholeheartedly, and his face registered surprise. "There are casualties of war. But there are other ways to soldier on. For instance, we can do our part by aiding the police. We must explain your theory."

"Yes," John coughed straightened his jumper, lifting an arm to hail a cab. "Maybe I couldn't tell that woman was going into the tavern—but I can piece together a theory, can't I?"

"Who says you could not? Though I must say, that is _inductive _reasoning, and far less trustworthy, and very little chance of it being right, though in this case I believe you _are_right. Still, inductive reasoning—unreliable at best, I hope you won't make a habit of it."

…

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><p><strong>The End<strong>


End file.
